


Sanctuary

by tanaleth



Series: The Persistence Question [4]
Category: Fallout 4
Genre: F/M, Far Harbor, Friendship, Gen, Introspection, Light Angst, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Blind Betrayal, Pre-endgame, Sanctuary Hills
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:40:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27918364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tanaleth/pseuds/tanaleth
Summary: Cecily looked up and past him, watching their blurry reflections shift across the fogged glass of the window. "I know what I would have done before the War if I'd gotten an unjust order. I'd have done the right thing and said the cost didn't matter."Nick's disapproval was palpable. He stubbed out his cigarette, a fierce little plume of smoke rising from the ashtray, and crossed his arms. "And now?""I—" She swallowed. "I don't know how the hell I can get out of it."(Cecily and Nick go to Far Harbor. Back in the Commonwealth, Danse makes friends with the settlers.)
Relationships: Female Sole Survivor & Nick Valentine, Paladin Danse/Female Sole Survivor
Series: The Persistence Question [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1702624
Comments: 25
Kudos: 23





	1. Chapter 1

Before the Great War, Nick Valentine had been about the farthest thing from a morning person there was. But the synth that called itself Nick Valentine liked the mornings. Standing at the rail of a guard post and watching the sun rise over the Commonwealth gave him a flicker of something… something short of optimism, but a warm feeling nonetheless. Contentment, maybe. A reminder that there was still good in this world worth fighting for.

Most of Sanctuary Hills was quiet at this hour, although from this vantage point he could see a few of the humans were already up and about. Humans and at least one not-quite-human: at the sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs behind him, Nick turned away from the view and inclined his head about a quarter of an inch.

"Danse."

"Valentine."

That flat stare might have been irritation, but to Nick it rather suggested the man just didn't know what to do with his face. His eyes flicked to Nick's and then away again—yeah. For once it wasn't anger or disgust. Just uncertainty.

Which was fair enough. It was a hell of a thing, not being the person you thought you were. The person you still felt like.

"Didn't expect to see you around these parts," said Nick. "Or anywhere else, to be honest."

"I'm keeping a low profile." Danse folded his arms, standing as stiffly as if he were still in armor.

"Huh. Well. Let's just hope your old friends don't recognize you without half a ton of metal on your back."

Danse only nodded and didn't respond to the barb. And it had been a barb, though a light one; Nick had held too many grudges for too long. He was too damn old and too damn tired to bother with another.

At least this kid had a shot at being a decent person outside the Brotherhood. Those shards of displaced loyalty, though, those would hurt like hell. And they'd leave scars–but that was life for you.

Nick pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. "Where's our friend, now?" Cecily's Power Armor still stood empty in its stand.

Danse broke his gaze abruptly—oh, now _that_ was interesting—and turned to peer over the edge of the guard post at the street. "Showers. She should be here any minute."

"Good. That's good," said Nick conversationally. But he kept an eye on Danse, considering, and then took a shot in the dark. "So how long have you two been enjoying each other's company off the job?"

If there was one advantage to being a broken-down old mechanical synth, it was being able to keep your thoughts to yourself. No such luck for the third-gens, however hard you tried to train them out of it: Danse's face went a little pink.

"I don't see what business it is of yours," he said, clipping off the end of the sentence before the _'synth'_ could slip through his teeth.

Nick heard it anyway. "Wouldn't have expected you to break protocol like that, Danse." He leaned against the railing and lit up. "Want a smoke?"

"Uh... no. Thanks."

"Your loss." He took a drag and sensed, if not felt, the heat of the smoke and the chemicals entering his body. It was only an approximation of the original Nick's habit, of course. It wasn't the same, but it was.. enough. It worked.

They stood in silence for a while after that, and Nick examined Danse's averted face. He couldn't say he was surprised things had gone that direction with the two of them. A little disgruntled at Cecily's taste, maybe—not out of any desire to be in Danse's boots, or pants, but he supposed she could have done worse. At least Danse was loyal to a fault. Might be his biggest fault, at that.

A breeze from the east rustled the dry branches of the old trees that still, somewhat improbably, lined the neighborhood. Nick leaned forward, resting his elbows on the rail of the guard post. "Got it bad, don't you?"

"I really don't see the purpose of talking about this."

"Humor me. I'm nosy. How's she feel about you being a synth?"

Danse snorted and turned back to Nick. "That's one hell of a personal question. Honestly… I don't even know how _I_ feel about it."

"Ah, you get used to it. More or less, anyhow. Hardest part these days is steering clear of the Brotherhood." Nick lifted a brow. "Good thing you lost the suit."

Danse, remarkably, still didn't take the bait. "It's nearly eight o'clock. Perhaps I should check on Paladin Williams."

The woman in question had yet to reappear from the showers. She must appreciate the solar-heated contraption Sturges had worked up—that, or she was standing in a puddle and swearing at a tangle of plumbing. For her sake, Nick hoped it was the former.

"Give her a bit. We've got the time." He took another drag from his cigarette. 

There might have been a hint of sarcasm in Danse's voice when he asked, "Excited for your journey?"

Nick exhaled slowly. "A case is a case. To tell you the truth, I'd rather have stayed in Diamond City. These old actuators aren't—ah, there's your gal."

Cecily had finally appeared from the bathing shack, wearing her own Brotherhood jumpsuit and shaking out damp hair. Nick caught her eye and she waved absently as she slung her pack over her shoulder. And her rifle. And her other rifle.

The Institute had given Nick decent enough peripheral vision, which meant he could see the synth at his side shifting minutely.

"Just… keep her safe," Danse muttered.

Nick stubbed out his cigarette and straightened, stretching his knees with an audible creak. "Kid, she's more likely to keep _me_ safe."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short chapter to set the stage for my Far Harbor fic. I'm really looking forward to this one.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Danse is at loose ends in Sanctuary. Nick and Cecily arrive in Far Harbor.

Cecily Williams had always liked the outdoors. Given how few places had four walls and a roof these days, it was just as well. The half-remembered safety techniques she'd picked up from Scouts and sailing lessons had proven to be much more useful than any of the "nuclear survival strategies" they'd been peppered with before the war. _Find shelter and await further instructions. Contact the nearest government official._ Not a bit of advice worth the paper it was printed on. It all assumed the existence of a benevolent authority who would surely step in and pick up the pieces. Vault-Tec hadn't exactly been that authority. And no one had imagined—or wanted to imagine—just how much the world would change.

"Safety" was a relative concept now, Cecily reflected, as she fought cold fingers to tie a neat figure-eight knot in the line. She'd never been timid, but she'd always believed in taking the proper precautions. A year ago she'd been preoccupied with following the latest medical recommendations for the baby. Much to the dismay of Nate’s mother, he slept on his back without a blanket; much to the dismay of her socially inclined neighbors, she was firm that there be no smoking in the house. It didn't matter how long she'd worked to win them all over. The baby came first.

When Nate came home, he complied with most of the rules, but she knew he found her caution a little excessive.

"Just because we're not at war doesn't mean there are no dangers," she'd told him seriously.

"Yes, ma'am, Lieutenant Williams," he'd mocked, and Cecily thought he sounded like a stranger. And then she'd gone back to reviewing litigation documents while she rocked Shaun's cradle.

Now, finding herself lashed to a jury-rigged fishing boat off the coast of Maine—the horribly irradiated coast of Maine, judging by the disapproving tick of her Pip-Boy—she felt like Nate might have had a point. Her old life seemed impossibly, foolishly carefree in comparison. And she'd spent it planning and sacrificing for a future that never even came.

"Sealant holding up, Nick?" she shouted over the roar of the engine.

"Oh, sure," he bellowed back. "You think _this_ miracle of engineering would spring a leak?"

"Just stay in the cabin, miracle man."

She'd long since lost track of how many days it had been since she woke up in the Vault, shivering and confused and feeling like she'd come back from death to find that she was the only one who had. Nick Valentine had been her lifeline during those first weeks and months. Back when she'd thought there was a real hope of bringing home her baby, back before the Prydwen had come to the Commonwealth and Cecily had joined the Brotherhood of Steel.

Nick hadn't been pleased by that decision, though he'd said he supposed he understood. She'd made the commitment to join before she ever met him. It was a bargain that she still thought had been the best way of... if not getting her baby back, then at least getting her own back.

But she couldn't blame Nick for keeping his distance when she started going on missions with Danse. He had cases, anyway, and between one thing and another it wasn't until she'd come back from the Institute that they'd talked like they used to. She hadn't been able to bring herself to tell anyone but Nick the full extent of what she'd seen down there.

And even to Nick, she hadn't revealed the full extent of her shame.

"This fog is something else," she muttered under her breath.

"What was that?" Nick's shadowy figure stood in the door of the cabin, backlit by the lights of the boat. Those lights weren't doing much other than to make the chilly mist around them look opaque against the darkness.

"The fog. I can't see anything." She checked the line again, just in case: it had plenty of slack, but the boat was still rocking more than she was comfortable with. With visibility like this, the last thing they needed was someone being swept overboard. "Good thing the elder Nakano put in that nav system."

"Sure hope the younger Nakano had one too, too."

"No kidding. Can you check the terminal? I think we're getting close." The smell of the sea had shifted in a way Cecily couldn't put her finger on. And it might be her imagination, but—yes, the faint outline of scrubby trees was rising above the fog, marking the shoreline.

Cecily was tired, and looking forward to getting a bed under her, but she'd actually enjoyed the trip. It was wonderfully freeing to move so quickly. It reminded her of how relieved she'd felt to take that first vertibird. The closest thing there was to—"modernity" seemed the wrong word, under the circumstances, but it was the one that sprang to mind. The closest thing there was to modernity... outside the Institute, at least.

Nick had been comforting the first time she'd come back through the relay. He listened patiently when she told him about Shaun, the man who felt more like a stranger than Nate ever had, and about the child synth he'd built. About the experiments she'd been told of, which were bad enough, and the ones she'd only gleaned dark hints of. Maybe she shouldn't have told Nick about the latter, but he only listened patiently and shook his mechanical head in disgust. And made some choice comments about the Institute's ethical standards.

She liked that about Nick. He'd offer words of wisdom when they were warranted, he'd help you through the rough times, but he'd never lie to you or pretend things would be all right when they wouldn't. For someone so cynical and world-weary, he could be a surprisingly kind... well, _person_.

Standing in her soaked Brotherhood jumpsuit, she wished she'd thought through all the implications of that earlier. But for some unfathomable reason, Nick wanted her help on this case.

So here she was.

* * *

All else being equal, Danse would have preferred to accompany his partner on her mission. But this was a different sort of mission, an investigation into a missing child, and Danse had to admit that sort of delicacy wasn't his forte. He could be discreet—recon work required the ability to lie low—but he generally favored direct solutions.

So did Cecily, but he kept that thought to himself.

_—_

_Danse's heart lurched unpleasantly as he stepped forward through the commotion. "Williams," he called, but Valentine—that damned mess of plastic and circuitry—was the one she turned to first._

_"Nick?" she said vaguely. Her eyes were a little glassy and her shoulders swayed as she stepped forward._

_The synth reached out to support her on one mechanical arm. "Rough trip, huh?"_

_"You could say that," she said. "Yeah. Let's—"_

_"Debrief," Danse cut in, impatience biting at his nerves. "To the Prydwen, Knight. Now."_

_She looked up at him then, her face going blank, and for a moment Danse regretted his words. That expression brought back the empty feeling he'd had when she stepped into the relay--when she'd disappeared into nothingness and left him to stare at the spot she'd been standing just a moment before._

_He moderated his tone. "You need to report to Maxson immediately. For the sake of the mission, soldier."_

_"Take it easy, Danse," said Valentine._

_If that goddamn machine had a tongue, Danse could have ripped it out._

—

Danse wasn't a fool. It was apparent now that he'd... misjudged certain things about the synth detective. But he remained more than a little skeptical of Valentine's use in a firefight.

He walked just behind the pair of them down to the gate of Sanctuary Hills, three pairs of boots smacking on the cracked pavement in the quiet settlement. Cecily turned to face him at the gate. Danse opened his mouth to say his farewells when she stepped forward and—right there in front of the old synth and anyone else who might be watching—kissed him on the lips. Whatever he'd meant to say dissolved into the morning sunlight and the glint of gray eyes before she turned away.

Torn between embarrassment and gratification, Danse stepped back and watched her go. He watched without blinking until she and Valentine had crossed the bridge and disappeared over the slope of the hill.

No, he didn't care for being left behind. Especially not here.

It was strange being in this neighborhood. The suburbs were always strange places, in fact. Knowing people had lived like this—that one small family had lived in a home so large, surrounded by other families, completely undefended? It seemed like folly now, but it must have been wonderful at the time.

Danse was still uncomfortable walking around the settlement so openly. But Cecily had assured him that this was a safe place—that she'd vetted the trustworthiness of every person here—and that he wasn't the only escaped synth in the neighbourhood.

He was probably the only escaped Brotherhood officer, though. He'd even heard about it on the radio. _Thanks, Travis._

He trusted Cecily's judgment, as a rule, but he still didn't trust the denizens of Sanctuary Hills as far as he could throw them. The merc glowered at him, the lunatic mayor grinned at him, and everyone else pointedly ignored him. More or less.

Why the hell was she so sure none of the settlers were informants? Take that civilian leaning against a power pylon, the one gazing at Danse from behind shaded lenses. Danse was growing uncomfortable when he realized…

"Damn it, Deacon, what do you want?"

Deacon, or whatever his real name was, turned his head at Danse's approach. "Just welcoming you to the team." The infuriating man grinned. "You are on the team now, right?"

"I'll refrain from asking exactly which team you mean."

"Hey, pal, whichever one you want." Deacon held out both hands in a mocking gesture of submission. "But you're not with the Brotherhood anymore, right?"

"No."

"Your civilian disguise needs work. First things first, let's fix that posture of yours. Right now it _screams_ militant asshole—I mean, 'determined and confident.' Learn to cower like the rest of us, man."

"That's enough," Danse managed through gritted teeth.

"What, no time to chat? Okay, okay. I seem to remember you used to talk a lot more, but—"

Danse shoved past Deacon and strode determinedly and confidently up the street, ignoring the hot flush in his cheeks as he paced. 

The word "banished" still made him feel like he'd been kicked in the stomach. But the more time went on, the more his creeping sense of resentment grew, too.

He understood why it had been necessary. He'd been prepared to die for the ideals Maxson preached. Hell, he'd expected to. The fact that he'd been spared at all was a mercy. But remembering Arthur Maxson's words—hearing him dismiss everything Danse had sacrificed and fought for—left a sour taste in his mouth. It grew sourer the more he thought about it. The sense of rejection, of betrayal, was like a weight on his chest.

It wasn't right to feel that way, of course. He was a machine; he was everything the Brotherhood stood against. Even more than Nick Valentine.

But he hadn't _known_ that, damn it. He'd joined up in good faith, shed his own blood and that of others—

He could almost hear Maxson's icy sarcasm in his head. " _Too true. How many of my men died under your command, 'Paladin?'"_

Danse had only made it a few yards up the street when another settler waved to get his attention. This time it was the Minuteman mechanic.

"Hey there," said Sturges, amiably enough. "Don’t let Deacon get to ya. He's an asshole, but he’s all right. You need something to do?"

Danse's mouth opened to respond in the negative, but he bit back the automatic denial.

He absolutely did need something to do. Anything productive would be better than squatting alone in the bunker. He needed to put his hands and body to work, even if his mind wanted to be somewhere far to the east, tracking down a missing person by the coast... or else in an airship hovering two hundred yards above it.

Self-pity would get him nowhere. 

"All right," he told the mechanic. "What do you need?"

* * *

The warning bells of Far Harbor still rang in Cecily's ears when she climbed the stairs to the only single room at the Last Plank. A disgruntled renter, sleeping on a cot in the hallway, rolled over with a curse at the sound of her ascent, then rose to his feet and stomped back past them down the stairs before Cecily could so much as whisper an apology.

"Charming people here," she muttered to Nick.

"Ain't they just. About as friendly as the local fauna."

The boat ride up the coast might have been peaceful, but their introduction to Far Harbor had more than made up for it. Cecily and Nick had been damn lucky not to meet any of those monsters before they knew what they were in for. And it had been a long journey, too. The town's new name seemed less silly to Cecily now.

"What did you think of that, uh, old fellow downstairs?" she asked.

"Hmm. I'll reserve judgement until he takes us to that—damn! Oh. Sorry, pal." Nick had nearly stepped on a cat. The cat expressed its displeasure with a hiss. "You know, that's why some people prefer dogs."

"Sorry. I should have turned on the Pip-Boy light." The old floorboards were invisible in the shadows.

"Ah, don't bother. I think this is us."

—

Her matches were a lost cause. Seeing her struggle, Nick reached into his pocket and tossed her a lighter. "Here. Save you the trouble."

"Thanks." She lit the oil lamp on the dresser, adjusted the wick, and sat cross-legged on the single bed.

Cecily was soaked to the bone. At least, she'd been soaked to the bone half an hour earlier: now she was only half soaked, wrapped in a musty-smelling blanket trying to coax warmth back into her limbs. She hadn't been this cold since the Vault.

Nick had gone so far as to remove his duster and hang it by the space heater, though he'd left on his wrinkled shirt and trousers. Cecily hoped nothing would short-circuit under there. He left the cigarette dangling from his lips and stood with both hands in his pockets, gazing out the window.

"Have you ever seen anything like this fog?" she asked his back.

"Not that I can recall. And my memory goes back a good long way. You warming up over there?"

"Yeah. Slowly." Cecily reached for her pack, checking a small pocket on the outside, and was relieved to find its contents intact. She tugged them out and absent-mindedly wrapped the chain around her fingers, stroking a thumb over the damp metal and glass.

"Good, good."

"How about you, Nick?"

"Can't say the cold bothers me much. At least, not since the last of my thermal sensors went out." He turned away from the window. She saw his eyes drop to her hands, and she clenched her fists like she'd been caught in something shameful.

"Holotags?"

"Yeah."

"Not yours."

"No. Nate's." She sighed, opening her palm and flicking through the jumble of tags. "And Danse's."

"Building up quite the collection, aren't ya?"

It wasn't the sort of collection she wanted to add to. But she only nodded.

"Missing your man?"

"You know about that, then." She didn't think he meant Nate. Cecily hadn't mentioned Danse since they set out, but Nick was an observant sort; she was more resigned than surprised by the inquiry. "I guess everybody does by now."

"Nah. Though if I were you, I'd expect people to put two and two together. Especially if you're gonna go around smooching him in public."

_Right._

"Look, Nick, nobody said it was the Brotherhood of Stealth." She rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand.

"Ah, don't mind me. It's gotta be rough."

"He's alive. That's the most important thing."

"Yeah, I suppose it is. Holding up okay?"

"He's all right. I think. I don't know." She closed her fingers around the tags again. "Hard to say."

"I meant you. How are you holding up?"

"Me? Oh, I'm fine."

Cecily thought she caught a flash of skeptical yellow eyes, but Nick didn't push her on the claim.

"I never expected any of this to happen," she admitted. "You know, when the Prydwen came, I thought that was the answer. That the Brotherhood had the firepower and the authority to fix the Commonwealth… but you, you warned me."

"Hmm." Nick shifted his weight in a startlingly human movement. "Guess I did."

"I thought you were biased against them because you were a synth."

Nick snorted. "Bias, huh? Well, I certainly wasn't thrilled to see them."

Not like Danse had been.

Cecily really hadn't expected... well, she hadn't expected any of it. But she certainly hadn't expected to fall in love with the paladin. She didn't even remember when she'd realized: it was just an immutable fact, brought to the fore of her consciousness by Maxson's orders.

She'd been flooded with confusion and hurt and the desire to—above all else—save him. No matter what the consequences, no matter what the ethics of it. No matter what the rules. It wasn't a choice she was making for her principles but in defiance of them.

Or maybe she just didn't have any principles left.

"Nick." She didn't know how to tell him, but she couldn't keep it to herself. "I have… more orders. From the Brotherhood."

"Well, that sounds ominous." Nick leaned back against the dresser and shoved his hands in his pockets. "Do I even want to know?"

"They want to wipe out the Railroad. No—they want _me_ to wipe out the Railroad."

Gen 2 synths hadn't been designed with especially expressive faces, but even Nick's eyes widened at that.

Cecily looked down at her hands, picking at a spot of rust on the back of a holotag. "I know."

"Pretty sure I saw Deacon skulking around back at Sanctuary. That mean you're stalling?"

"Yeah."

"You're not gonna do it, I hope." It didn't really sound like a question.

Cecily looked up and past him, watching their blurry reflections shift across the fogged glass of the window. "I know what I would have done before the War if I'd gotten an unjust order. I'd have done the right thing and said the cost didn't matter."

Nick's disapproval was palpable. He stubbed out his cigarette, a fierce little plume of smoke rising from the ashtray, and crossed his arms. "And now?"

"I—" She swallowed. "I don't know how the hell I can get out of it. Even if someone tips them off, Maxson will know it was me."

She felt like such a coward. Danse would be ashamed of her for even considering—

 _Danse would have gunned them all down,_ snapped an indignant little corner of her brain. _That's where_ principles _lead you._

The steel chain bit into her skin as she twined it tighter around her fingers. The truth was that she was terrified. Sooner or later she was going to slip, and someone was going to be hurt.

"What the hell do I do?" she whispered.

"You don't go through with it, first of all."

"And second of all?"

"Remember you're not alone. You've got people looking out for you. I'll help if I can."

If anything, this trip had been a relief. It let her put off the decision that much longer. "It's a test, I think. They wanted me to execute Danse. I didn't. And Maxson knows it."

Nick let out a short laugh and an uncharacteristic expletive. "I bet even he'd find himself in a jam if word of that got around. Well, one problem at a time. They know you're up here?"

"They know I'm in the field, preparing for the Institute assault. I can put it off for... for a little while longer. Long enough to solve this case."

A relief and a reprieve from responsibilities she didn’t want— even if the case itself was shaping up to be more complicated than they'd thought.

"We'll find Kasumi," she added firmly. Here, at least, there was no choice to be made. "We'll find her."

Nick studied her in silence. The waves lapped at the docks below in a rhythm that not even the nuclear apocalypse had altered perceptibly. Cecily could hear the creak of metal joints as the old synth shuffled in the darkness.

"Truth is," he said, "we might not be able to save that girl. But if worst comes to worst... I think between you and me, we can figure out what happened to her. We can give her family that much peace, and that's still better than nothing."

Was it really? Was Cecily better off knowing what her son had become? How much could one person take in a lifetime?

"I'm at my limit, Nick. I don't think I can stand to lose anyone else."

Nick lowered himself to sit in a chair by the window, fiddling with a battered pack of cigarettes but not sliding another one out.

"You know, I've been around a while," he said musingly. "Can't say I ever met anyone in _quite_ your position"—Cecily huffed a laugh at that—"but I've sure seen a lot of loss. A lot of grief and a lot of guilt, too."

And he'd lost a lot in his own right, not that he said that part out loud.

"The bitter truth is you can't keep everyone alive. You can't win them all."

Cecily crossed her legs and tightened the blanket around her shoulders. She was still cold. "Then how do I live with myself?"

"You just do. You focus on what's right and you do your damnedest to make it happen, and afterwards... I dunno. One mystery I haven't been able to solve."

"I want to save them," she murmured.

"Hey. If anyone can find a way, it's you."

They were silent for a long time after that. The glow of his eyes blurred with the blue mist from the window as her own eyes struggled to stay open. She still felt the rocking of the boat beneath her.

"Why don’t you get some sleep, Cece?"

The old-fashioned nickname almost made her smile. No one else in this time called her that. Even Danse could barely manage to use her first name. She didn't mind, but it stirred old memories to hear how casually it rolled from Nick's lips. Warm but a little painful, like a shot of whiskey that burned in your chest. Nick was, in a way, from her own time. Sometimes it felt like she'd known him forever.

"Night, Nick."

"Good night."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unexpected complications arise in both Far Harbor and the Commonwealth.

"What happened to your Power Armor?" asked Sturges as he and Danse walked up the curving main street of Sanctuary Hills. The settlement was coming to life as the sun rose: more people milled around, strolling down to the bathhouse or dragging equipment between vegetable plots.

"It's secured at the Red Rocket," Danse admitted gruffly. No need to explain that he didn't want to call attention to himself, or that the Power Armor he wore now wasn't the same suit Sturges was thinking of.

"Too bad." The man looked genuinely disappointed. "Wanted another peek at those fancy Brotherhood servos."

Danse tried not to sound too abrupt as he sidestepped a brahmin intent on its water trough. "I believe you required assistance?"

"Yup. Got a whole list of things." They ducked under the garage roof, where Sturges nodded at a clipboard hanging over the workbench. Penciled in a tidy hand were a variety of tasks like "fix southeast water pump" and "finish demolition of Callahan place".

"Ah **,** I see."

Some of the tasks were struck out and initialed by different individuals. Danse was startled to recognize a _CW_ next to a few of the entries. How the hell did she find time to do repairs in her old neighbourhood in addition to all her other duties?

"Could use a big guy around here. Another big guy," Sturges added with a hint of a grin. "Take that water pump. Handle's sticking. You know one end of a wrench from the other?"

"I think I can manage."

Sturges picked through the workbench and produced an oil canister, a few cloths, and a small toolbox, all of which Danse duly collected.

"Where are you staying?" Sturges picked up a wrench of his own, tossing it absently from hand to hand while he studied the chore clipboard.

"I was planning to return to the Red Rocket this evening."

"Now that won't do. Place even hooked up to power?"

"Not as such," Danse admitted.

Sturges scratched his chin. "Cecily didn't offer you her house?"

"She did, in fact." Danse hesitated. "I'm not sure how much you know about my circumstances, but... I don't want to impose."

"Naw. You're here for a bit helping out, we'll get you set up somewhere proper. When you're done with that pump, c'mon up back this way."

"All right. Thanks." Danse tucked the toolbox under one arm and turned to go.

"You got it," Sturges said to his back. "And bring up that Power Armor!"

"We'll see." 

* * *

Cecily ate a hasty breakfast at the bar while Nick fidgeted in the next barstool. The cat they'd met last night sat on the bar washing its ears, which was far from the worst health code violation Cecily had witnessed in the time since the bombs. The bottled Vim was fine, but the scrambled eggs were barely edible. She hadn't asked what species they'd belonged to: after the first queasy bite, she wasn't sure she wanted to know.

"You've met our captain, then?" asked the bartender, Mitch, as he made a pot of equally suspicious-looking coffee.

"We did," said Nick. "Along with a good number of your neighbors, think."

"Ah, yeah, all that ruckus last night. Well, now you see what we're up against on the Island. Enough to make you scurry back to the mainland, eh?" He laughed, a little more raucously than was called for, and offered Cecily more eggs.

It was still barely light when she and Nick stepped out onto the boardwalk, letting the door to the Last Plank swing shut behind them. The rank smell of low tide filled her nostrils, making her glad she'd declined that second helping of breakfast.

"Seems our guide isn't here yet," said Nick.

"I'm as surprised as you."

They'd agreed to meet Longfellow at dawn for their escort to Acadia, but he'd been half into a bottle of whiskey at the time. Even if he showed up at all, it might be a while.

Cecily strolled to the railing to peer into the fog. It didn't seem to be the capital-F Fog from last night, just the regular mist you'd expect along the Atlantic coast. Her Pip-Boy let out only the occasional tick.

"I've been here before," she told Nick. "Before the War, obviously. It was nicer then."

"Do you know, I think Nick might have, too. It's a little fuzzy, but… tourist spot, wasn't it?"

"Mhm." Cecily squinted over the rail. It was just possible to make out the shapes of some old masts. Incredible that they were still upright after all these years. She hadn’t been very old when she came here, but the bones of the place were the same.

Nick joined her. "Too bad it's come to this."

"Yeah." She wrenched her eyes away from the view. It was good they already had so much to do: even without the dubious influence of the Fog, a person could get morbid and melancholy in no time in a place like this. As a rule, Cecily wasn't fond of moping. "Do you think—"

"There you are," said a gruff voice from behind them. "No time to lounge around, mainlanders."

"Ah. Good morning, Longfellow."

**—**

For such a remote, desolate-looking location, the Island was teeming with life. Unfortunately, most of it was hostile.

A final pistol shot echoed through the misty forest and Nick made a faint noise of disgust as he stepped away from one of the sprawled bodies. The wolf's jagged fangs were still bared in a snarl, its mutated flesh glistening with sweat and gore.

"And _that_ ," he informed it, "is why some people prefer cats."

Old Longfellow tilted his head with a hint of a smirk showing under his white beard. “You like them puppies? We grow everything extra mean on this island.”

“Good God,” said Cecily.

"Don’t think God had much to do with it. Get a move on, mainlanders.” The contrary old bastard actually sounded cheerful when he added, “Linger too long and the Fog’ll get you too.”

“Always did want to grow an extra motherboard,” Nick murmured.

Cecily's mood improved slightly to see a look of unease spread over Longfellow’s weathered face. Her boots sank into the soft soil as they moved carefully back onto the road.

She’d left her Power Armor with the Nakanos. Danse’s complaints about the effects of salt water weren't exaggerated: there probably wasn't enough Abraxo in Far Harbor to keep a suit of T-60 from dissolving into rust. And she didn't particularly want to spend the entirety of this case with a scouring brush in one hand.

Still, after meeting the local wildlife—not to mention the Trappers—she regretted that decision. The fog cleared a bit as the morning wore on, but even so they encountered a Crawler, a Gulper, and a small horde of ferals as they made their way up the winding road towards the synth refuge.

Longfellow nodded at her laser rifle. "Not half bad with that fancy shit, are you?"

"Not bad, no."

"Hmph," he said, but it was a mildly impressed grunt. "Keep your eyes peeled. We ain’t out of the woods yet."

So when she spotted a slim figure in the robes of a Child of Atom, Cecily already had her finger on the trigger when Nick gave her a pacifying hand gesture and a dirty look.

It did seem the woman was more interested in proselytizing than violence. "Atom may have plans for you yet, sister," she called at Cecily as they strode past.

“Hope he doesn’t,” muttered Longfellow.

Cecily was inclined to agree.

By the time they reached the fog line, it was midmorning. There didn't seem to be much in the way of security as they trudged up the slope. Longfellow seemed at ease as he gestured them onward and up the stairs of the old observatory.

“Oh, it’s beautiful,” said Cecily in surprise. She’d thought the fog was clearing before, but this was like night and day. She could see for miles, past acres of pine forest right down to the sea.

“Not bad,” said Nick. “Not bad at all.”

“Don’t get too caught up in the view,” said Longfellow. “That’s the door there. You want to talk to ‘em, go on in.”

“The door's open? This case might be solved more quickly than we thought.”

“Hmm,” said her partner, reaching for a cigarette. “Let's not get ahead of ourselves.”

Longfellow shrugged and checked his rifle. “Up to you. I'm not going in.”

There was still nobody in sight, but Cecily’s wariness returned at their guide's sudden reticence. She wiped her sweaty forehead on one sleeve between the gaps in her combat armor. “Are they likely to be aggressive?”

“Doubt it. Not that I’d put money on what a bunch of robot-people are gonna do,” he said with a faint glower at Nick, “but I think they mostly just want to be left alone. Know the feeling. But you ever want company, I got a cabin down by Far Harbor. Stop by sometime, eh?”

“See you, Longfellow.”

The old hunter trudged back down the road without so much as a wave.

"You sure won him over," Nick remarked.

“Did I?”

"No surprise. You’ve got a way of getting folks on your side.”

Cecily snorted and slung her rifle over her shoulder. "If people were that impressed by good aim before the War, I'd have had an easier time with my HOA."

“Maybe he hopes you'll stop by for that drink.”

“Maybe he hopes I'll _bring_ the drink.”

“See? You’ll charm that rain slicker right off him in no time.”

She rolled her eyes at him as she pushed open the door to the old observatory. “Don’t tell Danse.”

“Synth’s honor.”

—

In contrast to the scenic view, the interior of the observatory was grubby and dimly lit. It took Cecily's eyes a minute to adjust from the bright sunlight outside.

There was no receptionist or guard. There was no one in sight at all, at first, and their footsteps echoed hollowly as they moved cautiously into the structure. But it soon became apparent they weren't alone. A handful of people in civilian attire walked through the hallways, but they only glanced at the visitors in passing and kept their distance. The last place Cecily had seen so many synths together—at least, so many human-looking synths together—was the Institute. But this was nothing like the Institute.

The double doors at the other end of the main corridor weren't locked, either. They opened to a wide circular room at the heart of the observatory. Racks of electronics sparkled in the center of the otherwise shadowy space. Cecily looked up the stairs, up the central pillar supporting the giant telescope, and realized that the dome was half-open to the sky. She glanced back at Nick, whose artificial pupils were contracting again in the unexpected burst of sunlight, but he waved his skeletal hand for her to take the lead. So she stepped forward.

She stopped moving forward when a vaguely humanoid figure rose from the shadows in a tangle of wires.

The words it spoke seemed like nonsense. Cecily wasn’t sure if it was even aware of their presence until it added, “Synth-kind welcomes you.” Milky artificial eyes gazed back at Cecily and her breath stopped in her throat. This… being… had the face of a Gen 2 synth.

Nick’s face.

She didn't know what she'd been expecting, but it wasn't _that_.

* * *

All in all, Danse's first full day in Sanctuary Hills wasn’t bad.

His unease wasn't waning, exactly, but he had a better idea of both the terrain and the residents. Despite his initial skepticism about Cecily’s suggestion, he had to admit that it had been a good idea to wait for her here rather than at the lonely bunker.

For one thing, he was actually able to help. Danse wasn't very experienced with all the chores Sturges asked of him, but he set his mind to learning. And he found his interest caught up in it. It had been a long time since he'd done manual labor without an explicitly military objective. The objectives of long-term sustainability were different than those of maintaining a temporary outpost.

He also wasn't in charge—and that was a little less comfortable. It had been a long time since he'd been given direct orders in the field. He was used to giving the orders.

But he wasn’t a soldier anymore.

He'd just stepped back to inspect his day’s handiwork when there was a sound of pointed throat-clearing from behind him.

"Paladin Danse?"

Danse managed to keep himself from reacting violently. He hadn't heard footsteps—which made more sense when he turned to see Cecily’s officious little robot hovering behind him.

Adrenaline was still coursing through his body from being caught off-guard. But he regulated his breathing to answer with a level, "It's just Danse, Codsworth."

“Of course, sir.” The robot paused. “Should I call you ‘sir’?”

“Uh—"

He blinked at the robot. It blinked back.

“Perhaps I should wait for input from mum?” Codsworth offered after a moment.

“That… might be best,” said Danse in some confusion.

“Of course, s—" Codsworth cleared his throat again. How? He didn’t even have a damn throat. “Danse. In any case, I’ve been sent to issue you an invitation.”

Having moved past the troubling issue of protocol, the robot seemed remarkably pleased with itself. “Mr. Garvey and the General are in town," it informed Danse with a touch of excitement on top of its usual pomposity. “Several of the Minutemen are gathering for dinner.”

“But I’m not—"

“The Minutemen and their _friends_ , I should say. I believe it was Mr. Sturges who suggested that you might also be invited. And wouldn’t the missus herself wish you to attend?”

Damn it.

—

The guests of honor were the last to arrive. The people scattered around the living room of the Minutemen’s unofficial local headquarters let up a whoop of greeting when they did, and the guests in question moved from person to person clasping hands and clapping shoulders like celebrities. Danse stayed in his spot by the far wall, but sure enough, they stopped in front of him too.

“Hello, Garvey.”

“Hey, Danse.” Preston hooked his thumbs into his belt and rocked back on his heels. “Good to see you.”

Danse rather doubted that. But he nodded back at Garvey and to the redheaded woman, the General of the Minutemen, at his side.

“Shall we?” said the General to the room at large, and the party flowed in disorderly fashion out onto the back patio. A pair of battered picnic tables were already laid with mismatched plates and forks. Codsworth was floating back and forth in front of an unlit barbeque, humming merrily as he seared radstag steaks with his flamethrower, and a generator spluttered away nearby to power the strings of lights that lit the patio against the growing dusk.

“This looks excellent,” said Danse in some surprise as they filed around the tables. It smelled good, too. He had slightly less regret about accepting the invitation.

“It will be,” said Garvey, grinning. “Just wait until you try Codsworth’s mashed tatos.”

Thankfully, none of the Goodneighbor crew were in attendance. Danse rather hoped they were manning the guard posts, though, because it seemed like everyone else in Sanctuary Hills was squeezed onto this patio. Sturges and Preston joined the Longs at the next table over while Danse found himself sitting with the General, "Mama" Murphy, and a female Minuteman he didn’t recognize.

The General leaned over the table extending a bottle of Gwinnett. "Beer?”

“Certainly. Thank you.”

“Are you planning to settle here, Mr. Danse?"

"No." Danse looked around for a bottle opener. Normally he used a sharp edge of his armor.

"Oh."

"It is a very pleasant community," he added, belatedly noticing the awkward lull in conversation. “Paladin Williams speaks fondly of this settlement.”

“She isn’t with you?” said the other Minuteman. Evidently she knew who _he_ was.

“No, she’s away on a…”—Case? Wild goose chase?—“…mission.”

"She keeps busy. We know. We owe that gal a lot," said Mama Murphy with an emphatic nod.

'That gal' was a senior officer of the Brotherhood of Steel, but Danse held back the knee-jerk correction. Instead he said, "Many people do, I believe."

"Mmhmm. She saved our butts in Concord, tipped us off to this neighborhood and helped us get set up. Helped me get off the chems, too—though I can’t say I don’t miss ‘em.” She laughed. "But you don't need the Sight to know that one's destined for big things."

"I can't disagree with that." Danse’s gaze drifted from the old woman to the strange Minuteman. “Wait. I know you.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Six weeks ago at the Brotherhood checkpoint in Natick. You helped me." His memory scrambled for a name. "Ramos."

"Oh yeah!" Recognition brightened the woman's face and she let out a startled laugh. "That soldier from the Sea. Damn, we thought you were a goner."

"I'm not. Thanks in no small part to your aid."

He probably shouldn’t have drawn attention to his background, but everyone in Sanctuary seemed at least to know he’d been with the Brotherhood. And it was only right that he acknowledge the service of the Minutemen to him and—by extension, for all they’d known—the Brotherhood.

“Don’t worry about it,” said Ramos. “Like Mama was saying, there are plenty of favors to go around here. Pass the tatos?”

Danse handed her the bowl.

"Nice," said Mama Murphy approvingly.

"You talkin' about his manners or his arms, Mama?" called Sturges from the next table.

"Both," she said to general laughter.

Danse applied himself hastily to his own tatos, hoping no one could see the heat that rushed to his face.

**—**

Against all odds, the dinner proved to be a pleasant experience. Danse hadn’t thought he would enjoy socializing with a band of Commonwealth settlers, let alone the leaders of the Minutemen, but he had. He hadn’t even minded the teasing about how many tatos he’d consumed.

But somehow, when it was over, that enjoyment only contributed to his restlessness.

There had been a time that Danse could sleep anywhere with only a moment’s notice. Hell, he’d even taken pride in it. But these days... he struggled.

He had elected to stay in the Williams house after all. After giving the matter some thought, he’d dragged an old mattress onto the floor of the living room—one of the only areas where the roof didn’t leak. The nursery was another, but bunking in the main living space let him keep an eye on the front door. And, to be honest, he felt awkward setting foot in her child’s room without Cecily present.

He wished she were present. As much as he missed her by day, it was nothing to the long dark hours of the night. The rest of Sanctuary had gone to bed long since, but Danse lay half-awake, half-dreaming of Cecily. When he lay on his side, he remembered the feel of her body curled against his. When he lay on his back, he remembered the feel of her hands sliding over his chest—surprisingly small and delicate hands, which made it all the more impressive how much power they had over him. He’d gone so many years with only a minimum of human contact. How could he miss it so much now?

It was probably only an hour or two before dawn when Danse finally gave up and rose to his feet. He didn’t bother with a light. When he couldn't sleep on the Prydwen, he'd go to the gym: Sanctuary Hills might not offer the same recreational facilities, but at least he could pace around the empty house.

He still had a vague sense that he was trespassing, even though he'd been here several times with Cecily. But this was where she had lived before the Great War. In a perfect world, he had no doubt she'd have preferred to spend the rest of her life living here with her husband and son. In a world where Danse would never have existed.

The comparison was almost offensively jarring. He was a pretty pathetic consolation prize compared to everything she'd lost. His confidence that she really did want to be with him was weaker in the small hours of the morning, the same hours when his brain was all too willing to cycle through his innumerable failures—but, he reminded himself, Cecily was an admirably decisive woman. It wasn’t her he doubted. Only himself.

Danse paused again at the door of the nursery. In fact, the only time he’d been inside was the first time Cecily had shown him her house. Back before they’d been together, back when he’d been her commanding officer and she just another soldier in his squad.

_"I only put this stuff up a few days before the bombs fell, you know that?" She toed aside a bit of ancient bunting. It crackled and crumpled into orange dust under her toe. "I didn't usually decorate much for holidays unless Nate was home. The neighbors gave me shit for it. Christmas, maybe, but last winter"—she didn't correct herself, but Danse knew what she meant—"I was getting ready to go to the hospital. He was born on New Year's Eve."_

_"I'm sorry."_

_"Thanks." She scratched her neck. "I hate being here, but I love being here. You know?"_

_He didn't, not really, but he didn't tell her so. He just watched as she walked to the crib and poked at the rusted wires that dangled above it._

_“What’s the purpose of that apparatus?" he asked, curiosity getting the better of his tact._

_To Danse’s surprise, she looked back at him and smiled. An unfamiliar sensation tugged in his chest at that look._

As he turned away from the small room, he stumbled over something in the darkness. A box—knocking off its lid and spilling its contents over the hallway.

He yanked on the string to the bare bulb overhead and swore under his breath as he knelt to collect the contents. There had only been a few things in the box, but they'd scattered far across the floor. And these were clearly... precious items.

A handful of photographs, the colors washed out but clear: Cecily with her baby. The smile on her face made his heart ache. A family photo with her husband and child. Another of her husband in what looked to be a pre-war dress uniform.

Danse was jealous, and he was disgusted at himself for it. Not jealous that they'd had Cecily but jealous that she'd had them, even if they were gone. And she'd had other family too. There were more people in the other pictures: parents, grandparents. Strangers. A pink-cheeked little girl who must be Cecily herself as a child. He set them all aside, feeling a little sick.

He felt worse when he found a wedding ring. He turned the thing over carefully, checking for dings or scratches. There was a date inscribed inside the band. 7.5.75. NATE & CECE.

Was that what he'd called her? Danse had never asked if she had a nickname.

He dropped the ring in the box hastily. This wasn't for him to see. None of it.

Danse had only just arranged the box back on its low shelf when a sound from outside caught his attention. _Trouble._

No more time for sentimentality. He tugged on his jeans, grabbed his rifle, and went to the door to listen. The hubbub seemed to be outside the house across the street—the same place they’d had dinner a few hours earlier. A cluster of people stood in the driveway with lanterns.

“Who?” someone asked in a low voice.

“The General.” Danse recognized Garvey’s voice despite the panic distorting his words. “It’s the General. She’s gone.”

“Could she have gone off somewhere on her own?”

“She wouldn’t. Not without telling me.”

Enough eavesdropping. Danse opened the door and strode outside. The Minutemen turned at his approach, but he addressed Garvey directly. “What’s the situation?”

Inexplicably, the man was still wearing his hat. But at Danse’s question, he took it off and ran a hand over his bare head in agitation. “She went down to the bathhouse about half an hour ago and hasn’t come back. I just went down to check on her and there’s no trace at all. She’s just gone.”

“Did the guards see anything?”

Garvey shook his head wordlessly.

"Let me see your defenses."

“It’s still dark.”

“Bring the lanterns,” was all Danse said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun dun DUN!
> 
> In my canon, Cecily helped out the Quincy survivors in Concord but turned down the role of General. She’s done a few side quests for the Minutemen, but the General who appears in this fic is someone else. 
> 
> Totally unrelatedly (*cough cough*), my friend @allisondraste writes [a lovely Preston fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27935461) that you should definitely check out.

**Author's Note:**

> (Curious about how this series fits together? Here's the [timeline.](https://sites.google.com/view/tanaleth/home/fallout/))


End file.
